The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

a dress typical of any well-to-do Englishwoman and appeared to be about Mary’s age. She had striking features, silky black hair, and a vibrant smile. It took a moment, but then the realization struck Mary. The man and the younger woman were the individuals who had visited the castle in the middle of the night.

Lady Trafford made the introductions. “This is Miss Mary Bennet. Miss Bennet, these are my esteemed guests, Mr. Jeetu Tagore, Mrs. Rebati Tagore, and their daughter, Miss Madhabika Tagore.”

Mary curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Miss Tagore took Mary’s arm and led her to a sofa. Mr. and Mrs. Tagore sat on the other side of the room with Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow.

Miss Tagore crossed her legs, then set her hands on top of them, as if she were posing for a portrait. “I was ecstatic when Lady Trafford told me that another young lady of my own age was residing at the castle.”

People were not normally ecstatic to see Mary. “I am glad you find my presence desirable.”

“Of course! Any friend of Lady Trafford is a friend of mine.”

“Have you visited Castle Durrington before?” asked Mary.

“Many times. But it has been at least a year.”

This was a complete falsehood. While Lady Trafford had not mentioned the middle-of-the-night visitors, even when prodded about how she had slept, she had never lied about it. Yet Miss Tagore seemed to have no compunction about lying.

“How long have you been staying here?” asked Miss Tagore.

“Almost three months now.”

“And how has your visit been?”

“It has been generally agreeable.”

“Only generally?”

“When you spend a long time with someone,” said Mary, “whether it is a family member, a friend, or a new acquaintance, you can hardly expect it to be always agreeable.”

“Many of my acquaintances are not honest enough to admit that. Lady Trafford said I would like you, and as always she is correct.”

The compliment surprised Mary. She did not tell the truth in order for people to like her.

“And where do you come from, Miss Bennet?”

“I am from Hertfordshire, near Meryton.”

“I have passed through Hertfordshire, but never had the fortune to stay.”

Any of her sisters would have responded with a standard pleasantry, such as “I hope someday you have the opportunity,” but Mary found this sort of small talk dull and could not bring herself to say anything.

“I am from Bengal but have lived in England for a number of years.” She leaned in, focusing her eyes on Mary’s head. She lowered her voice and whispered, “I do believe you have something in your hair.”

Mary patted her head, trying to find the object. “I was outside drawing earlier. Something must have gotten in my hair.”

“Try a little higher,” said Miss Tagore. “A little to the left—not my left, your left. Now farther back.”

Mary removed a small brown twig. Unsure what to do with it, she set it in her lap.

“You must be very diligent in your studies, to be out drawing on a cold day like this one. Why, I almost froze in the carriage, even with fur blankets and a hot rock under my feet.”

“I am sorry you were cold,” said Mary.

“I have heard it said that this should be a very cold winter.”

“I…I really know nothing of the matter.”

Suddenly Withrow sat down near them. He had crossed the room without Mary’s notice. This disconcerted her, as she normally prided herself on her powers of observation.

Withrow inserted himself into the conversation, talking about some of the new methods used to analyze the weather. Mary felt strangely like Withrow had saved her. She let him and Miss Tagore continue the conversation without adding any further comments. The Tagores, Withrow, Lady Trafford, Mr. Holloway: they were all connected. Their webs wove around her, but like spider webs, they could only be completely seen with the proper light, which she clearly did not have. Mary felt as if the walls of the room were pressing in on her, and her face felt a bit overheated, so she fanned herself with her hand.

“Are you unwell?” asked Miss Tagore.

“No,” insisted Mary. “I am quite well.”

If Mrs. Bennet were here, she would say that Mary’s discoveries had been too much for her nerves and recommend going straight to bed. But Mary would not blame her nerves—they were made of sterner stuff than her mother’s—and so she suffered through the conversation.

After a while, Mrs. Boughton led the way upstairs and introduced the Tagores to their rooms. Everyone else was changing into evening apparel, so Mary thought it best to at least change out of her dirt-stained dress. She opened her clothes press and paused.

Fanny had folded the three new dresses and placed them on one of the shelves.

Mary considered trying on the new evening dress. Its purplish-reddish-brown colour was so intense it was almost indecent. Even the name of the colour itself—puce—felt indecent. Perhaps seeing it on herself would rid her of the strange draw she felt towards the dresses. She would see herself in it, and it would become apparent that it was simply fabric with unnecessary opulence.

She almost removed the dress from the clothes press but she stopped herself. It was as likely that the reverse would happen; if she tried it on, she might rationalize wearing it and the other dresses, and it was better to keep desire in check rather than giving it an opportunity to blossom. She had lied to her French teacher, dressed as an impoverished woman, and done a bit of spying, but those were for a good purpose, and she did not want to compromise herself for fashion, especially if doing so would make her a victim of Lady Trafford’s plans, or, even worse, complicit in them.

She took a clean black mourning dress and shut the doors of the clothes press, promising herself not to consider the new dresses again, and feeling quite pleased with herself for standing up to the temptation of fashionable clothing.

*

Dinner felt like watching a play. She found herself emotionally detached, her mind